


Wicked Grace

by laveIIans



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Death, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Bring Me the Heart of Snow White, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Freeform, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hardened Leliana, Hurt/Comfort, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Softening Leliana
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-01 09:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17242109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laveIIans/pseuds/laveIIans
Summary: Skyhold's spymaster and First Enchanter had little in common - or so they thought. Both equally reluctant to let down their guard, and both nursing a pain that only the other could understand, they eventually found a solace and peace together that neither woman expected, but one they desperately needed.





	1. Chapter 1

The spymaster and First Enchanter do not cross paths often, and not through intention or design – their work takes them to separate areas of Skyhold, and there is little time for frivolity. They both lose themselves in their work, strengthening the lifeblood of the Inquisition in their own different ways, contributing to making it a force that could reckon the very Chantry itself. When they meet, they nod politely, exchanging pleasantries that they both know are meaningless but equally required, and then go on their way. There is little that binds the two together save their equal reluctance to waste time, and they do not linger beyond a quick greeting, unhurried but ultimately perfunctory.   
  
Vivienne attends to the magic of Skyhold itself, overseeing wards, researching spells and potions that may be of help to the Inquisition, sending raven after raven to her far-flung contacts across Thedas in the hope that they might be able to assist her. She positions herself above the Inquisitor’s throne, watching everyone who dares enter before the might of the Inquisition, sizing them up as they scurry and twitter like ill-trained birds.   
  
They are unworthy of even being in the same room, and they would be ripped to shreds before the Orlesian court; their manners are Ferelden, and thus appalling, and they do not defer so much as beg, sounding far weaker-willed than she reckons necessary. There is a great difference between hinting at necessity and showing you could not survive without aid, and the latter is a deadly error. They are spineless, she sneers, and revels in her internal mockery of all the empty gestures they make, the hollow promises they offer, the clinging to the Inquisition’s power that they could not hope to match, riding their coat-tails in hope of finding some meagre scraps of leftover glory and fame. It is utterly pathetic, yet equally fascinating, reminding her of the ever-shifting waters of the Grand Game.   
  
Leliana watches over Skyhold from afar, the shadowy presence the Inquisitor’s enemies and allies alike are often unaware of until it is too late. She does not embrace the crowds and teeming heaps of mendicants who come to bow before the throne, but she is still aware of their presence. In a similar vein to Vivienne, she writes letters requesting information, aid and resources, but her contacts are generally far beneath the First Enchanter’s approval; she walks in the shadows like a cat, moving gracefully through the underworld with practise and eagerly sighting out weaknesses to exploit, to blackmail into submission and to exchange for favours from stronger, more powerful people.   
  
Like a spider, she spins webs and nets across Thedas, using all manner of underhanded tactics to get exactly what the Inquisition needs. Where Vivienne uses cold threats behind a mask of honeyed grace and sweet nothings, utilising her words like barbs, Leliana prefers the more direct blade-to-throat route. Sneaking and subterfuge are her blades of choice, cloaking herself behind an impenetrable wall of secrecy and inconspicuousness; she is the figure that arrives unseen, striking quick and true, and all who deal in the dark know to fear her.   


 

* * *

 

One morning, cold enough for them to see their own breath, the two women meet to play chess. It is a game they both enjoy, an intricate cat-and-mouse dance that reminds them both of the Orlesian court, and one that matches their personalities quite well. They feint their pawns and pieces into positions before making the true moves against one another, eventually ending up in a truce; no further moves can be made. Neither is willing to end the game, and so it dissolves into a conversation, the board and pieces ignored and long-forgotten.   
  
“Well played,” Vivienne smiles, and Leliana nods in acknowledgement.   
  
“It is nice to see someone else who recognises the importance of the Game,” she responds, steepling her hands, and the First Enchanter understands immediately that her companion’s thoughts have returned to Orlais again.   
  
“It is a dance, is it not? Whether between two, or three, or a nation.” Vivienne leans back in her seat, eyeing the spymaster. “One misstep could be deadly… and yet we ache to see it all the same, if not simply to remind ourselves to be more on guard.”   
  
“Exactly.” Vivienne wonders how many people Leliana has killed with that cutting smile alone, sharper than a knife’s edge. “The Game is entertainment but also war. Beautiful, yet deadly. Decadence and power go hand in hand, and all the importance is in the seeming, not the act.” She sighs, shaking her head. “They do not understand outside of Orlais.”

“You are not Orlesian yourself, are you, darling?” Vivienne folds her hands in her lap. 

The spymaster blinks in surprise. She quickly composes herself, yet Vivienne notices her barely perceptible shock. “Neither are you, First Enchanter.” Her voice is like a curtain fluttering in the wind, full of silk and muffled threats.

Vivienne chuckles. “I suppose not. Few know I come from the Free Marches, and even fewer could name the city.” 

“Wycome.” Leliana grins in earnest. “The city of revelry, no?”

The mage shrugs. “Perhaps. I couldn’t possibly say.” 

“Because of the Circle?” Leliana pauses. “Or because you’re not a revelling person?”

“I had my fill of the sort when I was younger.” She half-smiles. “That was where I met Duke Bastien.”

“A good match,” her companion murmurs with approval, and Vivienne nods in acknowledgment. “Especially for a Rivaini merchant’s mage child.” 

“They both were.” Vivienne narrows her eyes at the implied barb. “I rose above what they could have hoped for me. Feared, perhaps.” She looks out across the courtyard. “It’s easy to rise when people have few expectations.”

“Very true.” Leliana thinks of Lady Cecilie and the dancing, the flowers, all the lessons she threw at her trying to mould her into being a perfect Orlesian lady. Had  _ she _ ever expected much of her? 

“You are not Orlesian either, though.” Vivienne seizes her advantage with an icy smirk. “You can disguise your Ferelden roots with the accent, the mannerisms and the acting, but you can’t get rid of it altogether.” 

She offers her a sympathetic look. “To be anything other than Orlesian is a disadvantage. I can understand that. But to pretend to be something else altogether? That is a  _ shame _ .”

“A shame?” Leliana’s nostrils flare. “I am not ashamed of being Ferelden -”

“You are. Perhaps not consciously -”

“The same way you hide being a Free Marcher?” Leliana’s thin smile could freeze fire. “Or even Rivaini? The same way you act as if you emerged from Montsimmard fully formed?” She gave a low, cold laugh.

“It is irrelevant to the grander scheme of things,” Vivienne counters. The air feels a lot colder around them, yet Leliana does not react. “It is irrelevant to the Inquisition -”

“ _ Ah _ .” Leliana waves a finger triumphantly. “That is what scares you the most, is it not? Irrelevance.” Never has a single word sounded so poisonous before. “You cling to the Inquisition the same way you clung to Celene, worming your way through the court with scandals dogging your every step. A mage in power would be banned… yet you were the most powerful mage in Orlais.” 

She laughs bitterly. “And then when you came to the Inquisition, you were still replaced. By a Witch of the Wilds, no less. You run from irrelevance, yet it has found you all the same.”

Vivienne does not speak; she does not need to. The board is frozen over, and Leliana’s hands are pinned to the table. She struggles weakly as a thin sheet of ice creeps up her body and locks her in her place, holding on to some semblance of dignity in her growing panic and maintaining eye contact with her opponent.  

“Perhaps it is so, darling,” the mage whispers, “yet I see you still hang on my every word. One might call you frozen in anticipation.” With a breezy wave of her hand, the ice vanishes, and the spymaster gasps, clutching her chest in panic. 

Vivienne wanders away without another word, not looking behind her. It was a low blow, a rash decision borne of rage and frustration, and one she instantly regrets. Still, weakness is a weapon, or so her tutors taught her, and it is one she can ill afford to offer someone else well-versed in the Orlesian art of betrayal. They may work for the same side, the same goals, but they will never  _ be  _ the same, never be entirely trusting of the other.

It is with this thought that she comforts herself, letting herself into her quarters and summoning a servant to fetch her a cup of tea as she relaxes onto her sofa with a book.  _ A Thousand Blessings: The Art of Magical Prayer in Tevinter, a Most Noble and Ancient Art _ written by some scholar whose name she fears to pronounce. It is interesting, if a little wordy, but she soon loses herself in the words she has read a hundred times before.

Leliana sits in her seat and looks out over the courtyard, thinking to herself. A sad look crosses her face briefly, quickly replaced by a rueful smile. Then she shakes her head and returns to her ravens, the world she knows and loves, grinning as she hears them caw in greeting. 


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, the two women meet to make amends. They stand on the battlements and watch the sunset, smiling as Skyhold is bathed in a soft amber glow.

“It was uncalled for, darling,” Vivienne says quietly. “I must apologise.”

“Well, no harm done really,” Leliana says before stifling a giggle. At her companion’s inquisitive look, she explains, “It was a little  _ cold _ ,” before dissolving into a fit of laughter.

To her great surprise, Vivienne laughs as well. Leliana realises she has never heard the other woman laugh before; not her dismissive, mocking chuckle, not a polite or pitying acknowledgement of someone else’s joke, but actual  _ laughter _ . It is music to her ears, and Leliana has an urge to hear it again.

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before,” she admits, before coyly adding, “Are you defrosting perhaps?”

“Darling, I don’t think even a swineherd could be less amusing,” Vivienne says in return, but she smiles and chuckles all the same. It feels  _ right _ somehow. “Most settle for jokes about iron or toughness anyway. At least in my hearing.”

“You can be somewhat… intimidating.”

“Really? I could say the same of you, dear.”

They stand together in companionable silence, watching the people of Skyhold go about their business, blissfully unaware they are being scrutinised from above. After a moment, they begin making observations about what they see - someone flush with the first pangs of romance stumbles over his own feet on the way to delivering a bouquet of wildflowers. Leliana wonders if this is an act, and whether he is deliberately playing the fool to ease suspicion or draw attention to himself in the hopes of distracting from the  _ real _ spy. 

“Nonsense, darling,” Vivienne murmurs, smiling once more. “Look at him. You can’t fake that amount of nerves. He’s either the world’s worst saboteur or the world’s worst lover, and my money rests on the latter. I think his boot just fell off.”

“The poor fellow,” Leliana says before giggling again. 

It’s a lot easier to talk with the mage than she had feared, and a lot easier to relax with her too. Before they realise it, the sun has set, and Vivienne lights their way back with a ball of fire in her palm.

“I knew a mage once, you know,” Leliana smiles. “She’d do that all the time, just to show off. Sometimes she made the flames into animals or funny scenes.”

“Who was this mage? They can’t have got far with party tricks alone.”

She chuckles. “Well, party tricks or no, it was amusing.” Leliana sighs. “The Hero of Ferelden was a hero to us all, a beacon of hope for the whole nation, but with me she was just Cara. It was different. She didn’t have to put on a show for anyone, she could just be herself and do silly things because she loved hearing me laugh. She said it was the… the best sound in the world.”

The tears come before she can stop herself, and before she can compose herself, Leliana turns into a blubbering mess, weeping loudly against Vivienne’s chest.

“Shh, shh, it’s alright darling.” The other woman pulls her in for a hug, patting her back comfortingly and stroking her hair. “It hurts, I know it does. Time is a great healer, but some wounds take longer than others. Loss is never easy.” 

She gently cups Leliana’s face with both hands. “You’re doing very well, darling, but you need to take care of yourself. Move at your own pace. It’s okay to grieve, too. You don’t need to hide it.”

“I can’t show it to anyone,” the spymaster says, leaning her face into Vivienne’s hand and closing her eyes. “They would destroy me -”

“You’re not at court anymore,” Vivienne reminds her firmly, “and you’re not on the Divine’s business either. You are the spymaster of the Inquisition, but that does not mean you have to surrender your feelings altogether. Nobody here will judge you, I assure you.”

“The others would.” Leliana’s voice sounds bitter in her ears as she wipes away her tears and attempts to compose herself, but she finds somehow she doesn’t care. “Everyone we work with, everyone we deal with, and yes, even the people we don’t. They will know, and whisper, and judge. I cannot appear weak in front of them.”

“It is  _ not _ weak, Leliana.” The sound of her name being said so curtly startles her, and Vivienne gives her an apologetic look. “But I understand,” she says, sighing. “If you cannot show your pain to the world for fear of them tearing you apart… I understand. But you can trust  _ me _ .”

“I… thank you.” She falls silent, unsure of what to say, and Vivienne simply nods. 

“We may not work in the same field or share the same expertise, but we work together,” she says before cursing. “Maker, I sound worse than a bard.”

“Hey, I  _ was _ a bard once!” Leliana says, thumping the other woman before giggling. “Besides, all this trusting is rich coming from a player of the Game, is it not?”

“I suppose.” Vivienne pauses. “It just means we have a better understanding of each other.” She indicates the door with a fiery wave of her hand. “These are your quarters. I presume you won’t need me further? I can stay if you would like, though.” She gently rests a hand on Leliana’s shoulder; an invitation, a suggestion, a kindness.

_ Stay _ , Leliana thinks beseechingly.  _ Please stay _ . All the thoughts of Cara have resurfaced and are swimming madly in her brain, twisting her stomach in knots she hasn’t felt in a long time. 

_ Has it really been ten years? _ she thinks glumly. She had brushed the pain aside, used it to fuel her work, turning herself as blunt and piercing as the tips of her arrows, shrugging off any reminders and carefully insulating herself from anything or anyone that might make her grief rear its ugly head again. 

Now it overwhelms her, and she just wants to talk, to let the feelings fly out of her mouth in a way she has never allowed herself before. It was too raw, too deep before, but now it clings to her like a shadow.  _ Please stay. _

“I think I’ll be alright,” Leliana smiles, waving to her as she closes the door behind her. She throws herself to her bed and does not rise until she has wept herself hoarse. 

It is comforting in a way; healing, too, she reluctantly admits. All the pent-up pain, sadness, frustration, fear and anger are released in one tidal wave of sheer emotion, and as her tears cease, she feels as if a great weight has been lifted from her shoulders.

_ You can trust me _ . It has been lonely, far lonelier than she cares to admit, and this particular pain was hard enough to share even with Josephine. She couldn’t, in the end; she just buried it even deeper beneath a layer of fake, tight smiles that ripped her face apart.

  
  


* * *

  
  


In the morning, Leliana tends to her ravens. She feeds them choice seeds she has selected herself, fine grains and sweetmeats with a handful of berries and nuts. Dorian suspects they eat better food than most Thedosians, and none would be able to doubt her devotion to her birds. They are not just messengers or spies or tools, but friends and loved ones; to call them a pet would be a gross insult, and an oversimplification besides. Only Leliana knows their names, and nobody else in Skyhold is allowed to tend to them. 

Few would even dare to go near them, for to do so would be to encroach on her domain of secrets and whispers, and she is unashamed of the pervading aura of slight unease she has fostered over the last few months. It helps to keep her distance from the people she works with and around, seeing as her job is a difficult and often unpleasant one. She must carefully dance around outright offending people while still needling them into doing as she bids, or otherwise manipulating them in all manner of ways. It is not a job, she admits ruefully, that encourages trust of others.

Vivienne comes occasionally with cups of chamomile tea when she is able, simply keeping Leliana company as she feeds and strokes them before sending them out in all directions. Josephine comes too on occasion, but the greater difficulty is prying the ambassador from her seat for a few moments; she is just as wedded to her work and desk as the other two are, and even getting her to simply have a break every so often is a Herculean effort.

Leliana confides in the ambassador as to her growing closeness with Vivienne. It is interesting to have someone else to talk to, someone else to listen to her rants and venting or whatever she happens to think and say at that point in time. She even admits to the other woman that she feels she has found better ways to deal with Cara’s loss.

“It will always hurt,” she says quietly in a rare moment of vulnerability, “but I have found over time it hurts less and less. I could not admit to myself how much it hurt before, but now…” She sighs, offering a shaky smile, and Josephine hugs her.

“Madame de Fer has helped you, I see,” the ambassador smiles. “It would make sense, given her circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” The words are out of her mouth before she can think, but Leliana is desperate to know. Is there something her friend is hiding from her? Perhaps a pain that she herself cannot voice?

Josephine shifts uncomfortably. “It would not really be my place to say,” she murmurs apologetically before brightening again. “Perhaps you can ask her?”

“Is it that bad?” Leliana feels ashamed. She would not want to cause Vivienne pain, not when the mage has been such a healing presence for her, and yet…

“Your presence may help soothe it somewhat, the same way she has helped you,” Josephine responds diplomatically, and Leliana kisses her forehead before leaving.


	3. Chapter 3

They sit together on Vivienne’s sofa overlooking the entrance hall to Skyhold, nibbling biscuits in as genteel a way as they can. It is difficult to make eating crumbly little things a delicate or ladylike pursuit, yet the pair of them make a passable effort, arming themselves with handkerchiefs and elegant china dishes to ward off any stray crumbs. 

“It  _ does  _ make you feel powerful up here, doesn’t it?” Leliana says, smiling as she watches everyone below. “I can see why you like it here so much.”

“I  _ am  _ powerful, darling,” Vivienne responds; the haughtiness is slightly marred by her attempt at stifling a laugh. “But yes, the view is quite agreeable.”

Leliana cannot help blushing slightly. A perfectly innocuous comment, one meant without any over- or even  _ under _ tones, and yet she feels a flutter in her chest all the same, one that she quickly suppresses. It makes her feel uncomfortable to think that way, and she is certain Cara would disapprove. 

“Are you quite alright, dear?” Vivienne asks, looking concerned. Leliana realises she has most likely been spaced out for a few moments and composes myself.

“Yes, thank you. I was just lost in thought.”

“Penny for them?” The other woman pours her a cup of tea, cooling it slightly with a wave of her wrist. 

“I was thinking of things I probably shouldn’t,” Leliana admits before inwardly groaning. She sounds incredibly ominous even to her own ears, yet Vivienne does not judge her.

“There is no ‘shouldn’t’, dear,”  Vivienne smiles, patting her hand comfortingly. “There is nothing you need be ashamed of, and nothing you could say would make me uncomfortable, I assure you. We are friends, are we not?”

It makes Leliana delighted to hear that, as much as it also terrifies her. She smiles in return, ignoring the warm feeling bubbling away as Vivienne’s hand remains in place.  _ I am lonely, and that is all. This will pass. I am not some schoolgirl ruled by childish infatuations _ .

“We are,” she says, and she means it. The mage’s expression is so warm, so caring, that Leliana feels her face grow hot, trying to distract herself by gulping down the tea. It makes her uncomfortable to suddenly be the focus of so much attention. For a long time, she has been used to Josephine and Josephine alone, having few meaningful bonds and friendships beyond her trusty and ever loyal companion. To have someone else care, and  _ genuinely  _ so, is a strange feeling. It does not sit well in her stomach.

“I am afraid,” Leliana admits slowly, as much to herself as to Vivienne. “I have… been alone… for a while.” The words come out of her mouth awkwardly, tripping over her tongue, yet the mage simply nods and listens patiently. Leliana tells her about Cara, about her death and so many other things she realises she has bottled away. Without intending to, she finds herself talking without an end in sight. 

“It was very hard,” she says, wiping her eyes. “She was so brave, so strong, and I really thought she could do anything. I assumed she would come back to me, and I knew she would. That’s why I wasn’t afraid when she went to fight the Archdemon.” 

Leliana pauses, trying to keep herself from an ugly fit of weeping over her friend again. “I never really said goodbye to her because I knew she would come back… and then she didn’t.”

“I understand.” Vivienne offers her hand a gentle squeeze. “And it’s not your fault, darling. You can’t blame yourself for another decade.”

Leliana is briefly distracted, remembering what Josephine had told her earlier. “What do you mean?” she asks hesitantly, aware she is likely encroaching on an area of similar pain.

Vivienne sighs, and for a long moment she says nothing. Leliana fears she has offended her and hastens to summon an apology, but her companion begins to talk again. “You are aware that I am the mistress of Bastien de Ghislain, are you not?” 

The mage grows serious, looking troubled, and a pit of guilt swirls in Leliana’s stomach. “He is… gravely ill. The healers fear he will not last much longer.” Vivienne has looked up every remedy, spell and cure, even every country quack’s recipe she can find in the hope of prolonging his life, of healing him altogether. Each day, the reality grows darker and hope grows fainter, yet she stubbornly persists in fighting the inevitable. “I  _ will  _ save him. I just require assistance to gain what I need.”

“What is it you require?” Leliana asks.

“A wyvern’s heart. A  _ snowy  _ wyvern’s heart, to be exact.” Vivienne grows more agitated. “They are too risky to hunt for all but the most experienced hunters, I’m afraid. The beasts are extremely dangerous, and they have the most potent venom of all wyverns. Few would dare seek them out.”

“Few have enough bravery, it seems.” It is Leliana’s turn now to squeeze her hand, and the other woman gratefully clings to her. “I’m sure the Inquisitor could be of service to you.”

“The Inquisitor?” Vivienne startles. “You don’t think she has enough to deal with? Would she really - ”

“She will, or I will make her. I promise you that.” It comes across a little more forcefully than Leliana intends, but she means every word.

“I see.” Vivienne manages a shaky half-smile. “You would… for me?”

“Of course. Whatever your heart desired.”

She chuckles. “Was that a pun, darling? It was  _ dreadful _ .” 

“Not a pun,” Leliana insists. “The truth.”

Her companion is clearly taken aback, and Leliana sees the tears gather in her eyes. Still, Vivienne does not cry; not  _ here _ , not before the hoi polloi of Thedas. She will tend to her wounds in private, away from those who could wield them against her. It is a pain and fear that Leliana understands more than she wishes, and she can only pray that this concoction will suffice to save Bastien’s life.

“ _ Thank you _ ,” Vivienne breathes, her voice scarcely above a whisper. “But you must… if the Inquisitor asks -”

“I will not tell her the reason, and you also do not have to, Vivienne.”

The mage tactfully retreats with a bow, moved beyond words. She makes her way to her quarters, barring her door and making absolutely sure nobody can get into the room. Just to be sure, she puts up wards and carefully locks all the windows.

Above her, Leliana returns to her haunt among the ravens, watching them fly to and fro, playing amongst themselves with scarcely a care in the world. She envies them their innocence, their easy carefree world without pain and loss and sadness.

Separated now by walls and floors, the two women nurse the same heartache and guilt, begging an uncaring Maker to spare their beloved and take them in their stead. Their prayers fall on deaf ears as always, and it reduces them both to quiet, muffled tears, hidden away from the rest of the world. 

  
  


* * *

  
  


Vivienne talks to the Inquisitor about the wyvern’s heart. She does not reveal the truth, instead claiming it to be a potion required by the Imperial Court. Had the Inquisitor been more familiar with the nobility of Orlais, along with Vivienne’s own history, she might have been able to fill in the blanks herself and immediately uncover the reason behind Vivienne’s emphatic request. Luckily for the mage, she is not, although she asks plenty of questions all the same.

When she agrees and makes plans with Cullen to trek to the Exalted Plans with a small party, Vivienne is relieved beyond words. She does not show the Inquisitor the extent of her joy, her now-growing hope, masking it behind courteous gratitude, yet Leliana is not blind to it.

“She will succeed,” the spymaster promises. “She has not failed us before, and she will not fail you. She cares about you, just as I do. As we all do,” she adds quickly, but Vivienne does not appear to notice her slip of the tongue, too preoccupied in her own excitement.

“Bastien will  _ live _ ,” she breathes, all but jumping for joy before composing herself. It gives Leliana’s heart a bittersweet twinge, but she is genuinely happy that Vivienne has a chance.

“You can save him,” Leliana says with a smile. “Cara’s fate was beyond both of us to alter it, but you have a chance. Take it.” She is not aware of the hopelessness of Vivienne’s own quest, and the mage declines to enlighten her, smiling serenely as she pictures herself running into her beloved’s arms once more, hearing him murmur loving words and caressing her as softly as one might stroke a baby bird.

“Oh I _will_ , darling. I will.” She is lost now in her own reverie, basking in her memories of happier times.

When Leliana leaves her side, retreating to hide the torrent of confused emotions swirling in her gut like a pit of snakes, Vivienne does not even notice; she is lost to herself, now, and the blind hope of what will never be.

 

* * *

  
  


“Is it wrong of me?” Leliana asks Josephine, red-eyed. “It  _ feels  _ wrong, and yet I… I cannot help myself.”

“We cannot help how we feel,” her friend says sadly, stroking her hair as Leliana rests her head against her shoulder. “Love does not care about whether it is  _ convenient _ .” 

“I don’t think I love her,” Leliana retorts quickly. “I  _ can’t  _ love her. Cara -”

“- Is  _ dead _ ,” Josephine finishes for her. “She would not want you to torture yourself. You have hurt enough for ten years. _Ten years!_ You deserve joy, however you find it.”

“But her lover is sick. It would be  _ wrong  _ of me to… to attempt to woo her in this state.”

“And it is wrong of you to make yourself sick with guilt over your own feelings,” Josephine reminds her. “Is Bastien not dying? Perhaps after enough time has passed, you can -”

“ _ Josie _ !” Leliana is shocked, looking up at her friend in amazement. “You cannot possibly mean that I should swarm on her while she grieves.”

“That is not what I said, and not what I meant. You are fully aware of that, Leliana.” Josephine sighs, shaking her head. “The most important thing is to be there for her when it happens, the same way your companions were when Cara died. Did you not wish to have someone around who understood back then?”

“I did.” They had parted ways after a while, neither of them having much that tied them to each other once Cara’s funeral had passed. Shale had travelled with Wynne, Zevran had left to hunt Crows, and Sten had returned to the stern arms of the Qun, more dour than ever. Morrigan had disappeared for a while, resurfacing again years later in Celene’s court. The last she had heard of Oghren, he had married a kindly woman named Felsi and got her with child, yet she feared it would end messily. The poor dwarf had had an endless string of bad luck when it came to romance and relationships in general, and she suspected Cara had been one of the few genuine friends the unhappy man had ever had. 

She had had a talent for uniting and befriending people in a way Leliana had never seen since, and one that didn’t require the cold manipulation  _ she  _ used. It was as if her very existence had been a rallying call, summoning all the good in the world to her side, and people trusted her. They  _ liked  _ her, and that love had grown far and wide as her legend spread. Her funeral had been one of the largest in Fereldan history, and every ruler and person of any significance had either attended or sent flowers and lavish gifts in her honour. 

It had felt hollow and meaningless at the time, at least to Leliana. What use were roses when her lover had died? What use was a slab of stone when she could not hold her any longer? These were just  _ things _ , meaningless trinkets, and the one thing she wanted, she could never have again. 

“Then be there for her,” Josephine says, putting an arm around her. “Be there for her, and what will come will come. Maybe love, maybe not. Either way, what matters is she will not hurt alone.  _ Neither  _ _of_ _you_ will hurt alone.”

“I will.” Leliana smiles, even though she feels like a golem is squeezing her heart tight. “She makes it all hurt less, so it’s only fair I can do the same.”

“Leli, you can be incredibly sappy, you know?” her friend teases, tickling her side until Leliana giggles. “How did Cara ever put up with you?”

“How does _Blackwall_ , Josie?” Leliana says in return, giggling as Josephine gasps and pretends to be offended.

“I have no idea what you mean,” the ambassador says unconvincingly. Her blush only further ruins her efforts.

“Oh, don’t play the fool with me! I’ve seen the little things you leave each other around Skyhold. The little notes and flowers.” Leliana sighs, resting her head on Josephine’s lap and swooning. “It’s terribly  _ romantic _ .”

“It cannot be, though.” Josephine sighs. “We come from different worlds.”

“So does Vivienne. There’s no harm in trying, right?” Leliana sticks out her tongue, and Josephine retaliates by prodding it with her finger until they both dissolve into helpless laughter.


	4. Chapter 4

When the Inquisitor returns, wyvern heart in tow, Vivienne feels as if her own is fit to bursting. 

“Inquisitor,” she gasps, almost unable to speak properly. “Did you hunt the snowy wyvern down?”

The Inquisitor produces the bloody sack for her. Vivienne inspects it and nods, relieved. 

“I will make use of it at once,” she says, almost about to walk away before stopping and turning around. “Would you care to join me? You don’t need a party to join you this time, Inquisitor and I… I would prefer it to be just us alone.”

“I still don’t know what this is all about, Vivienne,” the Inquisitor begins to protest, but the mage hushes her.

“Darling, if you will accompany me to Orlais, I will show you  _ personally _ ,” she promises, and the Inquisitor leaves to ready supplies for both of them.

Vivienne wistfully looks out over the courtyard.  _ I will be there soon, my love _ , she thinks, yet she cannot help a sinking feeling worming its way deep in her gut.  _ What if it doesn’t work? You know it won’t work, and you’re just denying it _ .

She bites back a sob, counts to ten and plasters a smile over her face. Ready to face the world, she watches the people who have come to beg and plead their cases before the Inquisition. They are shadows of shadows, scurrying hither and thither like the vermin they are, yet shadows with coin and gossiping mouths. 

She imagines the desperation they must feel, bringing back memories of when she herself meant nothing to the world. A Rivaini mage in the Free Marches who was then sent to entertain the Orlesian court, a mongrel tapestry of nations and identities that never fit comfortably or easily. Just as she rose within the Circle, she rose in the court when she caught the eye and heart of the Duke of Ghislain. 

Some had whispered she had ensorcelled him, snared him with foul and forbidden magics, but that had only made her laugh. “The only magic at play here is that he can recognise worth where you pretend there is none,” she had told them, and her continuing icy rebuttals in the face of rumours had only further inflamed the intrigue surrounding them. 

Long before they had met, Bastien had done the proper thing and made a fitting match for himself and his family. By his wife Nicholine, he had had two children, including an heir, Laurent. In contrary to the gossip, Vivienne and the duchess were nothing but firm friends; the fact that her husband had taken a mistress did not anger Nicholine in the slightest. 

Vivienne and Bastien never had children together. It would have been too risky for his own family to have an illegitimate child who might challenge his own heir, as had happened several times before, both within Orlais and across Thedas as a whole. With the help of the Game, any offspring between them might even have  _ won _ .

A greater concern, though, would be the taint of having a mage’s byblow in the family tree. If they had been born a mage themselves, they could not have inherited even the meagre scraps afforded to them as a noble’s bastard, instead quickly packed off to the Circle and quietly forgotten about. A powerful and skilled mage in her own right, an Enchanter, even a  _ Court  _ Enchanter and leader of a Circle tower… None of that would removed the disgrace for the duke, nor the pariahdom it would have brought Vivienne. 

It had hurt, once. The knowledge that any fruit of her loins would be something to treat only with disgust, horror and shame was a bitter pill to swallow; that Bastien was an influential noble only made it worse. To have borne a child would have likely put paid to her chance to rise within the Circle, and she had never regretted not having any in the first place - it was the fact she was more or less  _ forced  _ not to that had stung. 

_ They are only ashes in the past, a long-distant memory that will soon fade away. They cannot hurt you. They will not hurt you. It is for the best. _

Smiling, she clutches the heart with pure joy and returns to her quarters, readying her alchemical kit. She will create a potion that will pull Bastien from the brink of death, and she knows it. She is Vivienne, Madame de Fer; failure is not an option.

 

* * *

 

The following day, Vivienne and the Inquisitor begin the journey to the Ghislain estate. The former is filled with a furious determination that leads her to make the journey a relentless, unceasing ride that leaves them both saddle sore and weary. She refuses to admit she is in the wrong, that she is fuelled by false hopes that will never be met. She refuses to lose hope, because to do so would be to allow herself to be crushed by her mounting despair. 

She does not reveal any of this to the Inquisitor.

The other woman is confused, concerned and growing more tired as the days pass. She notes how the horses are tired too, no matter how Vivienne tries to invigorate them with some kind of spell. The mage is hellbent on  _ something _ , yet refuses to elaborate any further beyond it being ‘a private matter of great importance.’ Mentions of the topic only serve to make her companion testy, so the Inquisitor drops the subject. 

They do not talk much at all on the ride to the grand chateau, in fact. It is so clear that Vivienne’s focus is elsewhere that any conversation the Inquisitor attempts is quickly dropped.

Vivienne’s first thoughts once they arrive are how quiet it is. The servants hover in the background, but it is as if time has been frozen. The sounds of their footsteps clatter too loudly in their ears, a deafening roar against the stillness of the chateau. She nervously clutches the little bag containing the vial tightly, stroking the strings to comfort herself. It does not work.

“Bastien?” she calls out, her voice ringing out like the peal of a bell, and a servant ushers her to the sickroom with a bow before vanishing. The Inquisitor stays a few steps behind as they enter the room and close the door, allowing her a modicum of privacy.

For a moment, Vivienne is afraid. The room is too warm, and the stench of sickness and death clings to her like expired perfume. For just a moment, her body tenses and freezes up, and she cannot do it. She cannot walk the thousand miles to the bed and face him. The room stretches out endlessly before her, too large and intimidating, and she cannot move. 

Madame de Fer, the bogeyman of many a court tale, is frozen in place by her worst nightmare inescapably coming to life before her very eyes. Her blood roars in her ears, and her breath is little more than a shaky gasp as she trembles. She cannot do it.

The Inquisitor places a hand on her shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “I’ll be right with you,” she promises, and something in her words both soothes and chastises Vivienne. 

It is embarrassing to appear so weak and vulnerable in front of one of the most powerful people in Thedas, and yet the Inquisitor has got this far by her side. She hunted a notoriously dangerous beast for her, facing the very real threat of her own death in order to gather the ingredient that would stave off someone else’s. She deserves to be here, at least, and her presence helps Vivienne calm down.

The mage breathes in deeply before nodding. She makes her way slowly to Bastien’s side, the Inquisitor following behind at a polite distance, and it is all she can do not to let out a gasp when she reaches her lover’s side.

He is so shrunken, so frail, so close to death that it is remarkable he still remains in the land of the living. He is not her Bastien, this withered husk of a man. He is not her beloved.

Hesitatingly, Vivienne removes the vial from her bag, pulling out the stopper with an audible pop. With shaking hands, she pours the mixture over and between his lips, praying desperately that it will work. She has searched far and wide for a miracle, and this was the closest thing available. 

It is the only thing available and her last remaining hope. It is  _everything_.

With a gasp, Bastien awakens and looks at her with wide eyes before his face crinkles into an easy, warm smile so full of love that it makes her heart leap.

“I’m here, my love,” Vivienne whispers, smiling nervously in return, and her lover clutches her hand. 

“Vivienne?” he croaks, and her face lights up as she leans closer to hear him better. 

“Yes, darling?”

It  _ worked _ . Her prayers were answered. She would attend a thousand Chantry services for the rest of her life if it made the Maker happy, because He has finally listened and answered her feverish begging. He has granted her the only thing she ever wanted.

“It’s going to be alright, my love.” His hand slips from hers, and his eyes close for the final time. She can no longer hear him breathing, and his body is far too still.

“ _ No _ .  _ No, no _ ,  _ no _ .” Vivienne grabs Bastien’s hand tightly, clutching it to her in the hopes that it may breathe life back into him. 

It failed. The Maker is a cruel god to play with her heart like a child’s toy. She feels her entire world sinking and crashing to the ground in the silence that follows, her last echoed  _ no  _ fading away into the ether and leaving only the cold truth in its wake. 

It failed. 

 

* * *

 

 

She gently lets go of his hand, pressing a final kiss to his lips before rising and swiftly walking towards the door.

“I am so sorry, Vivienne,” the Inquisitor begins, but she cuts them off with a glance.

“We shall leave now. There is nothing for us left here,” Vivienne tells her. Her heart cracks in two like a gourd, leaving only a dull ache where it used to beat.

She knew this day was coming, but she never accepted it. She never could. In her hubris, she thought she could cheat death itself. The Maker has proven her very wrong for her gall, but it burns her. 

She will not weep here, not while her beloved grows cold and not before the Inquisitor herself. She must return to Skyhold and write the letters. 

The servants must see something in her look, because they start and run in a clatter to the duke’s room like a flock of startled hens. Vivienne ignores them just as she ignores the Inquisitor, whose presence is no longer a comfort and has instead become an ugly reminder of her worst fear bearing fruit.

When they begin riding back to Skyhold again at a relentless pace, only stopping to make camp once both riders and horses are on the brink of collapsing with exhaustion, the journey is once again filled with silence. No longer a relatively companionable silence, this is now the quiet of the grieving and the lost. 

They had exchanged words on the way to the chateau, even if they had been few and far between. Now there is nothing left to say.

 

* * *

 

 

As they arrive back at Skyhold, Vivienne’s only thought is of running. She dismounts her horse as quickly as she can without breaking her legs and runs to the place she has been so many times before, not caring for her bags or personal effects that still rest neatly strapped to her mount. 

The stairs seem much harder to run up now, and she finds herself unable to see clearly. Solas calls out to her as she runs past him, but in her agitation his voice is too far away to hear or understand; it is as muffled and swallowed as if she was a thousand feet underwater. Others look and remark as she runs past them, yet she finds herself uncaring about them either. They do not matter. Nothing matters.

She is watching the ravens with her back to the stairs as Vivienne runs towards her, flinging herself into her arms. Leliana grips her tightly to steady her because she is flailing and trembling like a leaf. 

“It  _ failed _ ,” Vivienne whispers, and her voice cracks. She falls to the floor and weeps, and Leliana simply holds her gently against her. She does not offer meaningless platitudes or words of comfort, and for that Vivienne is eternally grateful; instead, the spymaster stays with her until the tears gradually stop falling, gently wiping her eyes dry with the hem of her shirt.

She stands up, helping Vivienne rise, and beckons her forward. Leliana calls out and makes a gesture too quick for Vivienne to register it properly, and a black blur crashes against her arm in a flap of feathers. 

When she opens her eyes, Leliana is standing in front of her with an arm outstretched. A raven perches on it, watching Vivienne with black, beady little eyes, and it tilts its head in curiosity as she nervously approaches.

“You can stroke him. He won’t bite, I promise,” Leliana says, demonstrating for her. She nuzzles the back of the bird’s neck, and it leans into the touch with a look of pure bliss. 

Cautiously, Vivienne extends a hand to give the raven a quick, frightened stroke. The bird is far softer than she expected, and she wonders if this is a special kind of raven only Leliana has, or whether it is more indicative of her general ignorance in the world of birds. 

He caws at her happily as she strokes him again, and makes a crooning noise when she tickles his cheek. Vivienne laughs in delight, petting the bird again and again, and Leliana smiles at her companion’s joy. 

It will distract her for a little while, at least. Perhaps the birds will help her, or perhaps not. Regardless, she can have this little moment to let down her lofty walls and relax without fear of being judged. This, of all places, is a space for Vivienne to be  _ safe _ . 

Leliana gently takes Vivienne’s hand in hers and gives it a little squeeze, and the other woman looks at her dazedly. “I’ll be here, and so will they. I hope from time to time you might be, too.” 

The mage's eyes water again, but Vivienne manages a shaky smile and squeezes her hand in return as the tears fall once more.

 


End file.
